


A name I've heard somewhere

by GwenChan



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Future Fic, Gen, High School, Identity Reveal, POV Outsider, Post-Canon, Retired Victor Nikiforov, Retirement, Retirement AU, Secret Identity, SkyGem Retirement Challenge, Teaching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 18:45:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10577280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: The only thing the kids from the Russian course know about the new substitute teacher is that he's handsome and strangely famous.Or, a twist for SkyGem retirement AU where it's actually Viktor to become a teacher.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SkyGem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyGem/gifts).



**A name I’ve heard somewhere**

You know those movies when in a way too conservative school comes a substitute teacher who is handsome or funny or a bit unconventional or a combination and by the end of the year all the students would chain themselves to the teacher’s legs to prevent them from going away?

There, something like that can only happens in a movie with which spending a couple hours not thinking about anything; surely it isn’t something that can ever happen in real life (- and in any case not to you -). Or at least this was what Jessica used to think.

 

It all started in January, after the return from Christmas break, with the news that Miss Irinova had delivered a beautiful baby girl and would be on maternity leave at least until the beginning of the next semester. Thus the Russian basic course was bound to have a substitute teacher for the months that separated them from summer break.

 

Now Russian classes were scheduled for the first two hours of Tuesday morning, so when Jessica entered the room, with a large advance, she wasn’t much surprised to find it empty. Only that the room wasn’t empty. Indeed the rest of the class was flocking against the central big window, bodies pressed like sardines, fighting for a glimpse of glass through which peering.

“Miss Therence and Miss Jones had finally decided to win their UST?” Jessica asked, pushing aside a classmate’s arm to see too whatever had attired twenty sixteen years old attention.

Then she thanked God or any other Heavenly power to have her jaw well attached to the rest of her mouth, because otherwise it would’ve fallen on the floor; just like it happened often in those Looney Toons sketches.

“For all the flying pigs!”

On the alley a pink car – not any pink car, a pink Cadillac convertible Eldorado that seemed to have jumped out directly from a crayon-coloured movie – was manoeuvring to creep in the space left between Mr Boren’s Renault and Mrs Kornmehl’s Smart car.

And the driver – holy fucking god - the driver. In the exact moment he exited the cabin with a single pace of his long legs – wrapped in sinfully tight jeans – Jessica (and she wasn’t the only one) found herself asking if it was morally acceptable for a sixteen years old like her to pursue a crush for a man who couldn’t be younger than thirty-five. He looked remarkably good nonetheless.

 

“Who do you think he is?”

“A parent?”

“Too young!”  
“Some jerkass who is ignoring the sign “For school personal only” near the parking lot!”  
“Anyway, he’s heading the school entrance!”

 

There was one flight of stairs and half hallway between the entrance door and their classroom, less than five minutes with a quick pace. It was just the time to pine and hope what couldn’t be hoped.

“Holy fucking god, miracles can be real!” a girl, Lylia, shouted. She was playing watcher with half body leaned outside the class in the hallway; she loved to adjourn the rest of the class of the developing that happened outside the room.

“Something interesting?”

Lylia froze. A new voice, speaking a perfect English with just a hint of a Slavic accent, made her startled on place. Jessica saw Lylia turn in slow motion, shake her head with mouth agape like a fish out of water, and jolt to her sit.

She had all the reasons. The man who few moments ago they had seen exiting the Cadillac was standing there, framing by the doorframe, in all his glorious and statue-like beauty.

Someone got to call 911.

The stranger-from-the-Cadillac paced to the blackboard; the coat he had throw on his left arm twirled. He had platinum blonde hair, almost silver. He grabbed a chalk **,** flashed the class a grin that could put the shame on every toothpaste commercial, and wrote his name in Cyrillic alphabet.

“Viktor Nikiforov. I’ll substitute Miss Irinova. She gave me the program you’re supposed to follow. I’ve prepared a little test to evaluate your level.”

 

An hour later Jessica was sure to have failed half the test because it wasn’t possible to concentrate on the present tense of any verb when a total hot guy was just sitting there, all at ease on the desk, watching the students to catch any attempt to cheat. On the contrary, she was pretty sure to have forgotten how to write even in English.

Anyway, with all the tests corrected - a disaster, a total disaster – professor Nikiforov decided to dedicate a couple hours of lesson for a general recap and Jessica was sure to have already heard that name somewhere.

But it was a distant recall, the vague childhood memory of something heard on the TV during a lazy afternoon; or maybe she had seen it while diving deep in the dark pit of Wikipedia.

 

Little did she know it was only the beginning.

 

The second strange episode happened toward middle February, when in the middle of a lesson professor Nikiforov’s mobile started to ring a classical piece in crescendo. The man slid the smartphone open, checked the calling ID, threw the class an apologetic glare and brought the phone to his ear. He spoke fast in Russian. Jessica could pick only a few words, like “hello” and “calm down”, before Nikiforov switched to … was that Japanese?

Ok, things were getting strange.

English, Russian, and Japanese! It wasn't fair he was so handsome and talented.

 

“Sorry. I’ve resolved!” professor Nikiforov sighed. Twenty pair of eyes stared at him, over twenty mouths agape. “Do you speak Japanese?”

“After more than ten years hearing a language one ends up to learn something. Even if Yuri says that my accent is still horrible. He’s a very strict teacher!”

“So who was on the phone?”

“Well, Yuri. He’s always nervous before a competition; even more now that he’s coaching. Better to use his mother tongue in those moments. He’s more worried than his protégé. But Axel Nishigori could land a quad toe-loop while posting something on Instagram.”

“So who’s Yuri?”

“Well, my husband,” Nikiforov declared, with the voice of someone who would’ve gladly abandoned the boring explanation about verbs conjugation in favour of a passionate presentation about his spouse.

“You’re married! But the ring …”

“Is on the wrong hand? Well, in Russia we wear the ring on the right hand,” he pointed out, raising such hand to show the golden band on his ring finger.

 

Jessica wondered if it was morally acceptable to push a couple toward divorce. Just like she wondered how many people had truly listened to how conjugate the imperfect tense. Surely not her. She was too busy thinking about how the world could be cruel and unfair; she also tried to wrap her head around those technical terms professor Nikiforov had just used. She was so sure she knew them somehow.

She was the last one to leave the classroom, late enough to see the professor with his smartphone once again pressed to his ear. He was happily chatting in Russian, probably congratulating about something; something about an 80.2 score, whatever that meant.

   
Toward the end of March, all the class had started to gather after school, officially to revise before exams period and unofficially to discuss about professor Nikiforov. Few things were clear up to now - and for the n-th time, we won’t list that professor Nikiforov looks like a god on Earth among the important info.

“And we can’t stalk him on Sundays.”

“Well, on Sundays he’s always at the rink. I’ve met him a couple times coming back from hockey practice. I guess he has a membership, because he seemed to be on friendly term with the personnel,” a girl, Mariah, muttered.  
“Yeah. Now, for something really important, has anyone actually seen him together his mysterious husband?”

“Not yet. But from what I could understand he’s in Japan to coach Axel.”  
“Isn’t that a skating jump?”  
“Yes, and also the person Viktor talked about last month, remember?”

 

Yes, they remembered. Just like they remembered a series of other small but strange episodes that had had him as main protagonist.

“Remember when he was asked autograph?”

It had happened indeed few days prior, when about five girls in their twenties had gathered around professor Nikiforov in the alley, jumping and screeching like a bunch of fangirls. They all waved their smartphones and their gel-pens. 

Under the class very eyes he had spent the next fifteen minutes signing any surface those girls could provide and taking a zillion selfies. Really? Selfies? It was so 2010s!

“Of course. And the time the janitor has almost fainted seeing him? ”

“And then she asked his autograph too!”

“My mother was freaking out when I told her I would’ve had him for the rest of the semester. Then when I asked her why she was so enthusiast, she yelled at me for being ignorant!”

 

“Well something isn’t right about professor Nikiforov and when something isn't right there always a place you can go!” one of the boy exclaimed

“The police?”

“Google.”

He turned toward Jessica. She sighed. “As soon as I get home. Now we have to really revise these future form.”

 

It’s always strange to search a person you know in real life on Google. Normal people look up for celebrities on Google, for actors and singers, not for a teacher substitute in a course from a basic level Russian; no matter how handsome and hot.

With a deep breath, like she was about to hacker CIA central server, Jessica typed “Viktor Nikiforov” in the search bar.

Some of the first results spoke about a hockey player already dead and buried. Jessica adjourned the research excluding all the results linked to that sport.

“Holy shit!” she whispered when Google had elaborated. Ok, having twenty pages of results wasn’t in her original plans.

“Viktor Nikiforov” + “Yuri”

The pages even doubled in number. The first result was a YouTube link. Jessica clicked on it.

_Europeans of Figure Skating 2017. Male FS._

Jessica clicked her tongue. In 2017 she was only six, way too interested in watching cartoons to care about any sports, but she was sure she had heard “toe-loop” somewhere. The freeze-frame showed a ice rink, with a single small figure about to skate to the centre. Jessica checked her headphones were plugged-in, put them on, and pressed play. The creaky voices scratched her ears.

_\- So, what are your polls?_

_\- Well, I admit I was dubious at the beginning. Of course Nikiforov doesn’t need any introduction, but his sudden return to the competition out of nowhere has surprised us all and, yes, I had my doubts._

_\- Without foundation_

_\- Definitely. It looks like he hadn’t laze around while coaching Katsuki._

_\- Who has been spotted on the bleachers after having won a gold at the Japanese Nationals._

_\- Exactly. But rumours are for later. Now, as I was saying, it was a new Nikiforov the one we have seen the other day; in perfect harmony with his chosen theme._

_\- That we remind you this year is “Rebirth”._

_\- Exactly. Talking about the podium, with the technical score typical of his programs and his artistic capacities, I dare to say I see already Nikiforov on one of those steps. The real question here is if he’ll manage to push down Plisetsky from first place. It’s a game played between them and Giacometti. Indeed neither Nekola nor Crispino are at their level._

_\- So, we have just to see._

The camera zoomed on the figure skating toward the centre of the rink. If the name quoted by the announcers wasn’t enough, Jessica recognized him immediately. Professor Nikiforov was about ten years younger, there were fewer wrinkles around his eyes, and his body was the one of a professional athlete. He wore a costume suggesting the idea of a Phoenix just raised by the ashes of its own fire: dark grey trousers and a colour-shifting jacket over a ivory-coloured silk shirt. Jessica watched that figure from the past assuming a starting position, arms crossed on the chest, body a bit curled inside. Then the music began, dark first notes of a violin spreading in the air through the speakers.

For a moment Jessica forgot it was a ten years old video. It was a forgotten performance, something someone had uploaded on YouTube a long time before. There was a useful button to fast-forward and discovered how it has ended. Instead she grabbed the mouse with sweaty hands, her bottom lip bit by teeth, her heart stuck in her throat because it was impossible to divert the gaze from the Viktor Nikiforov in the screen. Those movements, those evolutions weren’t human.

_Quad toe-loop, triple toe-loop_

No, definitely they weren’t

 

When the music veered toward its ending, accompanying Nikiforov who was exiting from the last spin – camel spin – Jessica was clapping. Yes, she was clapping and cheering, just like the crowd on screen was scratching their hand in celebration. Then there was a tense pause, waiting for the scoring.

_220.6. Not enough to take the record back. But enough to put him in first position. He had surpassed Giacometti._

The video stopped there. But there were tons of other. Viktor had won a gold, by the way.

 

Two hours of videos later, around ten pages of articles, and a full immersion on Wikipedia, Jessica was pinching her own arms hard in the attempt to wake up from what surely wasn’t reality. Apparently Viktor Nikiforov was the most decorated figure skater in the last twenty years, he still held the SP world record, Russia considered him like a national treasure, and he had retired from competition in 2019.

 

_Nikiforov continued coaching his protégé Katsuki Yuri for another two years. The couple married in 2021, in Hasetsu, Katsuki’s hometown […]_

_The programs he choreographed are famous for bringing out the skater’s best qualities […]_

_Here and there he’s invited to live commenting in competitions._

Yes, the White Rabbit hole could be very deep.

 

The most recent article announced that after having helped his protégée Axel Nishigori on her quest to a wonderful silver medal at the worlds at her senior debut, Katsuki Yuri would reunite with his husband in Detroit.

“ _Vitya said he wanted to camp in the airport, but there’s so much to do. This year I’ve preferred to coach Axel back in her and my home rink, but by May she should reach me here in Detroit._ ”

The articled was dated 26th March. It was the 28th.

  

So the following week, when professor Nikiforov entered the class beaming a giant smile, with the light step of a person on the ninth cloud, Jessica knew the reason without having to ask.

“The tests went well?” she demanded anyway.

“Not at all. A total disaster, apart from the usual exceptions,” the teacher replied with a too happy voice for a person who had just announced to give an F to more than half of the class. “And as punishment, here there is a War and Peace DVD to watch in Russian.”

The class exploded in a groan.

“Or would you prefer to translate cursive Cyrillic!”

The class silenced at once. It was surely better to follow Natasha and Andrej’s adventures even without understanding a word of the dialogues than becoming cross-eyed trying to find a letter in a mass of doodles.

 

Jessica drummed with her fingers on the desk, tapping her tablet pen against her lower lip. She hadn’t yet had the occasion to share with the class that, apparently, professor Nikiforov was some like of sportsman celebrity that are sometimes talked about on the TV. Nevertheless, once the lesson had ended, she gathered al her courage and, approaching the teacher, she asked: “So the season’s finished!”

Viktor Nikiforov stared at her wide-eyes, lips quirked upward in a tired but happy smile. “Google?”  
He asked, the rest of the question implied.

“Also Youtube and Wikipedia,” Jessica pointed out. Viktor Nikiforov chuckled, gathering a series of papers scattered all around the desk in a tide package that he then put in a folder.

“Does one of your parents want an autograph?”

Jessica furiously shook her head. “No, they aren’t great fans of figure skating,” she told him, voice low as she was apologizing for something. “But, If I’m not indiscreet, I’ve guessed this was the reason for your happiness today.”

“Yes. I didn’t remember it being so long, but now Yuri’s coming home. Why don’t you come meeting him at the rink this Sunday? I’d be happy to introduce you to him.”

Jessica told him she would’ve though about it. Then she referred to her classmates.

 

Probably from the face professor Nikiforov made that Sunday – a surprised faced conditioned to appear charming by years of practice – he didn’t expect to see all his class to walk through the rink double doors, rubbing their hands and looking around with both curious and amazed expression. As he was standing on the opposite side of the rink, he skated toward them. He had a smartphone stuck between ear and shoulder.

“Hi class! I hope for you this impromptu doesn’t prevent you from studying for next week test,” he welcomed them, voice mocking stern, not bothering to cover the speaker.

“We were just, hum, curious!”

“You skate?” one of Jessica’s classmates shrieked, loud enough for the person on the other side of the phone to hear her. Indeed it came a muffled but angry “ Of course he skate! Young people, where have you been up to now?” someone shouted, in English. Viktor muttered something quick in Russian, before putting the speaker on. The hologram of a small figure appeared, hovering above the smartphone screen. He was older, but Jessica recognized him as Russian champion Yuri Plisetsky.

“At least until he hadn’t this bright idea of going teaching! You’ve barely finished high school, what do you want to teach! This is even worse than the time he told Yakov he was dropping his career to go coaching and pursuing a Japanese man who had dried humped him while drunk!” Plisetsky yelled.

“My, my, Yuri, you’re becoming like Yakov. And then can you blame me? When love calls you have to answer!"

“Ugh, whatever. Now I really have to go. Thanks for the advice anyway,” Plisetsky concluded, sounding like he was choking on that thanks.

 

“And Yuri?” Jessica finally asked. Viktor Nikiforov raised a long pointer fingers toward a slightly chubby man with raven black hair, dressed in comfy sweatpants and T-shirt.

And there he was, Katsuki Yuri, Professor Nikiforov's mysterious husband, cheering for a girl more or less Jessica age who had just jolted herself in the air in what Viktor applauded as a “perfect triple salchow”.

Then Jessica saw Katsuki skating to the rail, gesturing for Viktor to join him on the ice. She saw professor Nikiforov beaming, grinning wide, as he glided toward the other man. He had the same grace of the skater who had won so many medals years before.

She saw the perfection and beauty of their synchronised steps; the delicate grace of each spin and lift. Above all she saw the love and tenderness in their eyes, golden rings shining so bright it was magical.

She felt a bit guilty.

She felt very guilty.

But not as much as she felt sad when the school year ended and they had to say their goodbye to professor Nikiforov.

 

“Your pronunciation has improved a lot!” professor Irinova complimented them when she came back in September.

“Well, professor Nikiforov was very strict. At a certain point he refused to answer our questions if they weren’t in perfect Russian,” Jessica told her.

“Yeah, he was a cool but stern teacher,” echoed another classmate.

Miss Irinova nodded, absentmindedly, scrolling through the online class register. That surname surely rang a bell, it wasn’t very common, but then surely there wasn’t a single Nikiforov in Russia.

 

In any case, she asked a colleague during lunch break. “So, the kids from the Russian course had told me about how great the substitute had been,” she threw there, poking her pudding with the plastic fork. Whatever it was supposed to taste, that surely wasn’t vanilla.

“Yes, Viktor had been pretty cool. I mean when I saw him I wouldn’t have given him two cents, but then your students adored him and –“

“Wait, he’s called Viktor?” she froze.

“Yes.”

“Nikiforov?”

“Yes.”

“That Viktor Nikiforov?”

“That?”

“For heavens sake, you’ve never watched anything beside that football of yours, don’t you?”

“Sometimes I watch hockey.”

“Ugh, hockey. I mean, Viktor Nikiforov has been here?”

“Yeah.”

“Early 40s, tall, silver hair, heart-shaped smile?”

“Yes, yes, yes, and … yeah?”

 

Miss Irinova definitely didn’t spend the rest of the lunch break fangirling like a teenage girl about the skater she had a crush on when she was younger, like half of her classmates, and that apparently had spent six months to teach in her own class. Definitely not. She was a grown and mature woman. She was a serious mother.

 

But the next Saturday, when Russian class organised a trip to the local ice rink, she was there too.

**Author's Note:**

> With the permission from SkyGem, I thought about writing a twist on it where Viktor become a substitute teacher for a semester for a Russian course (I know little about US high schools, but let's just say than ten years in the future there'll be courses for foreign languages) and his students don't know how famous he is because they were too young when he was still competing to remember his competitions.
> 
> Then I've tried to imagine a bit the technology will have in ten years and since holograms are a thing for me, I may have quoted them.  
> Hope you enjoy.


End file.
